ChapterFourteen
L’AUBERGE NOTRE-DAME, PARIS
Three days later
Sophie leaned her forehead against the cool glass window, watching the fine mist of rain wash away specks of dirt. There weren’t many. This was a much more respectable establishment than their lodgings in Calais, which Lord Rotherby had pronounced ‘a dubious backwater Horace should have known far better than to patronise while he was indisposed’. And while Horace had muttered extensively about headstrong young ladies who led them all a merry dance, he was too relieved about the recovery of his guvnor to complain.
Sophie had been far more vocal, pointing out the many advantages of such a dubious backwater until such time that they agreed their story, but Rotherby remained unimpressed.
‘I may not be gentlemanly in the way you would wish, but I draw the line at grubby sheets,’ he muttered, when they made the journey to L’Auberge Notre-Damein Paris, which boasted a sparkling view of the Seineand the historic cathedral.
Yet even the superior view couldn’t allay Sophie’s cold fear that she’d made a very big mess of things indeed. She’d planned to be employed by some quiet, respectable modiste by now, not still in Lord Rotherby’s company, and getting more anxious with every passing minute. Gloomily, she thought of Phoebe and how much better she would have fared, especially when it came to a muddy back-alley brawl with two of the worst rogues in Calais.
And now she had no plan, no crossbow, no personal possessions whatsoever– at least not until hers had been washed and mended. She glanced down at the lace-trimmed jade muslin Lord Rotherby had provided while her own dress was with the seamstress. She was well aware it became her burnished curls and sea-blue eyes better than anything she’d ever owned– that Lord Rotherby appeared to have a considerable knack for picking out expensive Parisian fabrics and colours to suit– but even this acknowledgement failed to cheer her for long, as it was clearly down to much practice on his part.
Exhaling, she recalled the blur of the past few days. Lord Rotherby had insisted on making the journey from Calais to Paris, despite his wound re-opening and needing further care. Sophie had had little choice but to oblige until they reached Paris, and Horace had been her constant shadow ever since. She was certain his vigilance had far more to do with her care of his precious guvnorthan any regard for her skin, but it had limited opportunities all the same.
Then, finally, Lord Rotherby had proposed a new arrangement: he would arrange for her to remove to the home of a friend outside Paris, if she postponed any new escapes.
Sophie had to admit that the prospect of some time to make a new plan, rather than traipsing through Paris in search of a modiste prepared to take a chance on an ingenue without a sketch to her name, was very tempting. And, once they’d established his friend was a respectable childhood connection and not one of his past light-o’-loves, she’d readily agreed. This unexpected reprieve had also helped her weather numerous curious glances from L’Auberge Notre-Dame chamber maids, who clearly hadn’t believed the story about a sick abigail in Calais.
It was with the promise of this removal uppermost, that Sophie made her way down L’Auberge Notre-Dame’s wide guest staircase. Horace was running errands while Lord Rotherby was resting, leaving her to enquire about progress with her dress. The hotel staff had been polite so far, but she was sick with fear they would change their minds the longer the party stayed without an appearance from the redeeming abigail. Indeed, it was just as she was wondering if whether she could persuade one of the curious maids to fill the breach, that she heard a voice that filled her with the oddest mix of hope and chagrin.
‘I require only a modest bedchamber, nothing special, and a light supper please,’ a most sensible voice requested.
‘Mais, monsieur,’ the landlord protested in his horrified tone. ‘L’Auberge Notre-Dame does not have zis… modestchambre. Only… grande!’ he boomed, gesticulating wildly.
‘Then the smallest of your grand rooms,s’il vous plaît,’ the calm tone persisted. ‘I am passing through Paris and will be checking out in the morning.’
At this the landlord shook his head emphatically, vastly unimpressed by any gentleman who refused to see how superior the L’Auberge Notre-Dame was in comparison to other Parisian establishments.
‘A smallgrand chambre?Mais non! C’est une tragédie!’
‘I assure you it is not a tragedy. I simply wish to book…’
‘Sir Weston?’ Sophie inquired, her heart hammering.
Sir Weston’s calm and unruffled figure turned to peer up the shadowy stairwell.
‘Miss Fairfax?’ he asked incredulously, ‘Is that really you?’
Sophie smiled wanly, feeling as though a thousand years had passed since he came to her assistance at The British Institution.
A shadow flitted across his face as he regarded her.
‘I’ll take any room that’s free–grande,petiteor anything in the middle,’ he threw at the landlord, who was muttering darkly about the 'eccentric English and their ways'.
‘Are you well? What are you doing here?’ he added in an urgent undertone, striding across to meet her. ‘I heard you’d left for Paris rather suddenly, but didn’t dare hope I’d run into you…’
Sophie nodded, barely trusting her own voice, and suddenly aware of a few heads turning their way.
‘Please excuse any indelicate questioning on my part,’ he added, lowering his voice. ‘I am just so surprised to see you here… Would you care to join me in the parlour? Partake in some refreshment?’
Sophie nodded without hesitating, the prospect of being in Sir Weston’s calm and reassuring company for a short time eclipsing all her concerns. Gratefully, she followed him into the parlour, where he proceeded to order glasses of the landlord’s recommendedBordeaux–a request that appeared to redeem him a little– and find a private booth beside the parlour fire. Then, haltingly, Sophie repeated the fictional story about the sick abigail, though Sir Weston’s earnest face made the task almost impossible.
‘Though of course you are free to draw your own conclusions, and who could blame you after all,’ she finished, hanging her head.
‘Do excuse me, Miss Fairfax,’ Sir Weston replied gently, ‘but it seems to me you are not quite yourself at all. You are under no obligation to tell me anything of course, but as Lord Rotherby and I are related, you are free to confide in me with all confidence.’
